Alright, alright. I now present the final chapter of this slice-of-life tale of the lasting effects of trauma. Don't do traumatic things to people.

Also, extra special thanks to Mana_Sputachu for being my second pair of eyes on this. You're a doll :)

Onward~!

Chatting with Mary had actually managed to raise King's spirits for just a little while, but she surmised that it was much the same as putting ointment on a burn: a temporary relief to dull the pain for a few fleeting moments during the healing process. And though she had somehow felt normal enough to FaceTime her little brother after getting home from her failed excursion with her friends, intrusive thoughts began to resurface in a manner so severe that the bartender felt she had no choice but to self-medicate for the sake of her sanity. That was why, at seven-fifty-six PM, King — who was now dressed in comfortable house clothes and feeling rather cranky — plucked two rainbow sherbet-flavoured, five milligram THC gummies from a small tin and popped them without hesitation before washing them down with a swig of cheap rosé straight out of the bottle she had purchased earlier in the week.

King didn't make it a habit to take the so-called edge off with alcohol and edibles together, but it occurred to her that the combination had the potential to do something her Ambien couldn't: knock her out — and keep her out — for the entire night. She just had to ensure her wine consumption was measured, as she really wasn't looking to get tipsy or drunk.

Then again, maybe tipsy wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing…

With a sigh, the Frenchwoman haphazardly reached out to her left to pet Marron, who had fallen asleep after sticking his entire face into the bowl of steamed vegetables she had microwaved for herself. The cat let out a low grunt, then shifted so that his chubby belly was exposed, eliciting a small smile from King, who gave him a light scritch just under his ribcage before turning her attention to the television, which was playing a documentary she had stopped paying attention to at least half an hour prior.

"Je devrais peut-être recommence, huh, Marron?" King asked the purring cat as she picked up the remote control. Just as she moved to point it at the flatscreen across the room, the doorbell rang, momentarily startling her. She made a face, set the device down, and quickly rose from her seat.

"Damn it, Mare," the bartender called as she stomped over to the door and started releasing the locks, "I appreciate all that you do but I am one hundred percent done with —"

The sight of Vanessa standing on the center of the welcome mat rendered King speechless. Mouth agape, she blinked several times and cleared her throat as she tried to shift gears from exasperated to cordial.

"Ah — huh — hi?"
"Hey, you," Vanessa greeted lightly. "Been a little bit, huh?"
"Y-yes," King stammered while looking away from the other woman, who had changed out of her business suit and was now wearing a frumpy hoodie, basketball shorts, and battered sneakers. A small purse was slung across her chest, and she wore no makeup whatsoever. King took a deep breath; how on earth was it possible for this woman to be so hot at all times of the day with or without being fully made up?! Not that it mattered — and especially not at that moment — as words like "homewrecker," "slut," and "ruined" all popped into King's head, stopping her brain's usual quirky autoplay of Cherry Pie before it could even start.

"Soooo, are you going to stare off at the floor like a deer caught in headlights, or are you going to invite me in?"

Vanessa's friendly query shook King out of her reverie. She cleared her throat and wordlessly stepped aside so the other woman could walk into the open living space. Once Vanessa was inside, King shut the door and leaned her back against it, unsure of what to do or say, as she couldn't think of a single reason why the agent — who was back together with her husband — would show up at her apartment in the first place. Maybe it was one of her nightmares and it was just off to a slow start…? With that in mind, King subtly and deliberately pushed a fingernail into her forearm as hard as she could (without drawing blood, of course).

It hurt — a lot.

Not only did it hurt, but it didn't make a single damn difference regarding her surroundings, either. She was still standing against the door, and Vanessa was still in her living room, now sitting in the plush armchair near the coffee table.

"Are you going to come sit?" The other woman called innocently. "Or are you going to continue standing there wondering what I'm doing here?"
"I… sorry. How rude of me," King replied. She crossed to the living room, lowered herself into the corner of the couch, and tucked her legs under her. She then pressed her lips together, set her eyes on Vanessa… and instantly averted her gaze as the image of the awful smile in her nightmare suddenly popped into her head. She swiftly grabbed her wine bottle and took a huge swig of the liquid, which, to her dismay, was quickly approaching room temperature.

"How much of that have you had?"

The pointed question made the Frenchwoman stop drinking right away. She swallowed hard and forced herself to look at her guest.

"... About a third."
"And that?" Vanessa asked while gesturing toward the tin of edibles.
"Probably not enough."
"Hmm. I've never seen you on that stuff," the agent said as a small smile spread across her lips. "Are you gonna get silly and cute?"
"Probably just more depressed than I already am and sleepy," King replied without thinking. She grimaced, as that wasn't exactly a thought she wanted to express out loud. Nevertheless, she watched Vanessa carefully — or tried, anyway, as looking at her for extended periods was proving so difficult it made her want to scream. (Better than vomiting, though…) She pressed her lips together in a very thin line again as she did her best to present herself as a (somewhat) functional human being.

"You know… that's… pretty much why I'm here," Vanessa slowly stated with a frown. "Because I'm a bit worried about you."

King made a face; the two hadn't spoken since the tournament ended so there was no way Vanessa could possibly know what was going on. Not unless Mary said something, but she knew her bestie would never do that.

"Worried?"
"Yeah. I ran into Mary and Mai at Pao Pao earlier," Vanessa started, "and they said you had been there too but left because you weren't feeling well. And Seth told me he saw you on your way out the back exit, and that you looked like hell. I dunno. Something felt weird, so I decided I'd —"
"There's nothing weird about me leaving," King interrupted, a little harsher than intended.
"No, but there was something in the way the ladies — and Seth — came across that raised a red flag or two and, well, now that I'm here I'm just gonna ask point blank: What is going on? Because — and you probably don't wanna hear this, but bear with me — you really do look like hell. Not only that, but this place is a mess, and you're doing edibles and drinking straight out of the bottle on a Wednesday night. So if it's not tournament stress, and it's not what happened at the hotel, then what is it?"
"…I had therapy today," King sighed after a moment. "I had to talk about some terrible things."

Now it was Vanessa who grimaced, though her eyes were full of something that King couldn't place.

"I'm sorry to hear it. It must have been rough if you're so wound up all this time later."
"A bit, yes," King confirmed.
"That doesn't exactly explain why you've barely looked at me, though."

Shit.

At that, the bartender placed her wine down so she could run her hands through her hair. Although she was generally a straightforward person, she didn't know the best way to respond truthfully to the woman in front of her. Somehow she didn't think saying, "My severely intrusive thoughts about the traumatic event I went through ages ago triggered a horrible dream where you choked me out and then helped my rapist do it again," would be the best idea. And although Vanessa had asked her a direct question, and made sure to specify "no bullshit," King found herself unable to even formulate an answer. Not only was she unable to formulate an answer, but she was overcome by a sudden need to be alone and away from everything and everyone.

"You should probably leave."

The statement was said in a brusque tone that maybe even bordered on rude.

"What? How come?" Vanessa questioned, clearly a little taken aback by the shift.
"Because —" King took a quick swig from her bottle — "I've been drinking, and I've had an edible on top of it. In a few minutes I'm not going to be able to think straight enough to have a productive conversation."
"But maybe it will be the perfect time to have a productive conversation. You've said it yourself: alcohol makes people more honest."
"Which is why you need to go. I don't want to say anything to you that I might regret later."
"What could you possibly say that would —?"
"Anything. Everything. Just… talking isn't a good idea," King answered sharply.
"But getting drunk and stoned by yourself is?"
"I have my cat."
"King."

There was a loaded silence as the bartender drank a little more, her earlier desire to avoid getting drunk entirely out the window. Meanwhile, Vanessa watched her intently, her expression thoughtful.

"Céc," she started candidly.
"Don't."
"I'm going to need you to put that down and look at me. Not at my feet, or at my hair, but at me."
"I can't do that, Van. Not right now, anyway."
"Then will you at least tell me why you're having such a hard time? I know you said that your panic attack before round one wasn't because of anything I said or did, but it's getting very hard to believe that for obvious reasons."
"It really isn't you."
"But…?"
"But —"

"Did you really think anyone would want someone like you?! A broken, revolting whore who hides behind a silly moniker and a ridiculous, macho façade because she can't own up to how weak and pathetic she actually is?!"

King placed a hand on her forehead while pressing her lips together. Her memories of Nightmare Vanessa practically trying to kill her while berating her, coupled with the real Vanessa trying to talk to and soothe her was giving her whiplash — and one hell of a stress headache. She shoved the meddlesome flashbacks aside as best she could and took a deep breath before speaking in an abrupt manner.

"I already said that talking wasn't a good idea."
"You mean making sure you're okay isn't a good idea?" Vanessa prodded, her brow quirked.
"No! It's not," King snapped. "It's a horrible fucking idea because I am not okay and I am sick to death of talking about my feelings with everyone!"
"You haven't really talked about your feelings with me, though. You do realize that, right?"
"What good will it do?! You'll just tell me the same things everyone tells me: It wasn't my fault. I'm strong. I've come a long way. It's okay to not be okay. Encore et encore et encore et — tu ne comprends pas? J'en ai marre! J'e —"

King immediately cut herself off as she remembered that Vanessa didn't speak a word of French. She sighed and threw her head back against the sofa so she could stare up at the ceiling while the agent drew in a deep breath.

"Céc.I'm not gonna force you to talk to me, but, for the record, I wouldn't tell you that stuff," Vanessa remarked. "Anyway, I know that you're… intensely private — and you have every reason to be. But I would hope that, after everything, you'd trust me enough to tell me when something is wrong. I mean… you trust me with some other, very personal things, after all…"
"Yeah, well, it's not like I want to lament about how broken I still am while I'm being fingered in private libraries or locker rooms," King spat.
"Or my guest bedroom," Vanessa pointed out.
"Or your guest bedroom!"

There was a brief pause as King realized how… amusing Vanessa's comment — which she had just repeated — was. She couldn't keep herself from chuckling, which, in turn, made her guest smile.

"Looks like it worked," the agent told her.
"You sneaky bitch," King laughed, all at once unable to keep herself from giggling as a subtle burning sensation started spreading through her feet and calves.
"Yeah, that's sorta my brand. Housewife… secret agent…?"

King laughed again (not that she had truly stopped), but still needed to compose herself as best she could, as she could feel a crying spell coming on despite her giggles. She chanced a glance at her companion, who was observing her with a gentle smile that broke the camel's back.

"Je jure que j'ai perdu la tête," King dictated as a lump formed in the back of her throat. "C'est un putain de bordel!"

She covered her face with her hands and let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a choked sob while realizing that, once again, Vanessa didn't understand her.

"Sorry," she said, her voice muffled.
"Why are you sorry?" Vanessa queried while moving to the sofa so she could sit next to King.
"Because I'm too French. I'm too French, and I'm too damaged, and I'm too much and —"
"You're too stressed out, and you're too hard on yourself. Come here."

Vanessa tenderly pulled King into a tight hug, which shattered the Frenchwoman's composure entirely. She balled her hands into tight fists and leaned into the other woman as hot tears began to stream down her flushed cheeks. Everything she had been holding back started to pour out in the form of choked sobs and a borderline stream-of-consciousness string of words and phrases, some even being strange amalgams of English and French. Nevertheless, she went into details about her recent problems about her self-worth, her nightmares, and — oddly enough — a random craving for pepperoni pizza.

"Edible hitting you hard?"

King, who felt incredibly hungry, but also drowsy, nodded. She pulled away from the other woman and grabbed a tissue from a nearby box on the end table closest to her. She wiped her face and blew her nose before crumpling the sheet up and tossing it on the coffee table (she'd clean it up later…). She then fixed her eyes on Vanessa, whose sweatshirt had wet splotches all over it, and frowned.

"Shouldn't you go home to your family before they start asking questions?"
"I can stay at the gym for a little longer," the agent said with a wink. "Besides. I wanna be certain that you're okay before I leave here."
"I just need sleep and pizza," King mumbled. "Sleep and pizza and kitty snuggles and maybe some more pizza."
"But no more wine."
"No?"
"No," Vanessa chuckled. She reached past King so she could grab the bottle before standing up. "You'll thank me in the morning."
"I'd thank you now if that ring wasn't on your finger," the Frenchwoman blurted. Immediately, she threw a hand over her mouth and looked away, not because of anything regarding Nightmare Vanessa, but because of how uncalled for that was.

"I… I mean —!"
"Hey —" Vanessa put a hand up to stop King's discomposed, THC-addled protests before they could even start — "relax. If things were different, well… I definitely wouldn't mind, but for now, why don't we focus on the fact that, right before you said that? You finally made eye contact with me."

The bartender slowly uncovered her mouth as she realized that the woman in front of her was right: she had successfully engaged her without feeling the need to stare off at the walls or the floor, and without any caustic statements interrupting her thoughts. She blinked a few times (everything felt so hazy and far-off) and tilted her head slightly as she glanced upward at Vanessa, who flashed her an encouraging smile before walking the wine bottle to the kitchen.

King found herself unable to help it as she watched Vanessa's hips sway while she walked to the other room. She shut her eyes, leaned back in her seat, and took several deep breaths, relieved as the chorus to Cherry Pie started auto-playing in her head.

I dunno, man. I dunno how this has really turned out so I'm gonna rely on you, dear reader, to let me know if it sucks. In the meantime... notes!

* The gummies King ingested are the special PLUS brand Pride gummies. 5mg THC per candy. Also, the proceeds from each tin go to Transgender, Gender-Variant & Intersex Justice Project (TGIJP)
* Je devrais peut-être recommence = I should probably rewind this/start over
* What happened at the hotel refers to the events of Come a Little Closer, when Vanessa's use of the word "dirty" triggers King's PTSD
* King's statement about alcohol making people more honest was uttered in a conversation in Devil's Night
* Encore et encore et encore et — tu ne comprends pas? J'en ai marre! = Again and again and again — don't you get it/understand? I've had enough/I'm done!
* King's statement about being fingered refers to events that happened in Circus Acts and Devil's Night. Vanessa's contribution refers to their hookup in Red
* Je jure que j'ai perdu la tête = I swear I've lost my mind; C'est un putain de bordel = It's a fucking mess
* King is canonically a vegetarian, but even they crave meat every now and then. Not only that, but in Oxygen to Breathe she breaks her diet, resulting in a spiral of bacon binges and an eventual decision to try pescetarian eating habits. Of course, pepperoni is still supposed to be off the table but... cravings.

Alright, so... there you have it. The end. It's okay, though; we're gonna see how King is holding up very soon. As always, thank you for reading, and doubly for commenting/reviewing!

Cheers~